


Catholics Are Great At Giving Head

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: Written during a fic chat.  The prompt was to write for 30 minutes from a trope off the list. I chose the trope “Catholics are great at giving head.” As a Catholic, I honestly should probably go to hell right now.  I wrote 75% of it while drunk during the chat, and the rest the next day while sober (honestly, the drunk part is probably the better of the two!).





	Catholics Are Great At Giving Head

_Catholics are great at giving head._ You remember one day a boy said that to you. Eric Jackson. That was his name. Needless to say, he never got a chance to find out. At least not from this Catholic. There were others though. Others who could’ve confirmed or denied (you think most would’ve confirmed). You’ve surprised yourself, quite honestly. Not because you’re good at it, but because you _like_ it. Like, really, really like it. The power, the control. 

You wonder whether Mulder suspects it. Whether he’s imagined your mouth on his cock, _sucking_. You’ve imagined it. Holy hell, you’ve imagined it. Many times. You’ve seen him hard, seen him trying to hide it, seen him biting his lip as you thrust out your chest, pretending you don’t know how it affects him. You do that sometimes, tease him. You like the way it throws him off balance, how he stutters and fumbles with his fingers, how he sweats. 

You used to tease Eric Jackson, too. Only you had no intention of going down on Eric Jackson. You have every intention of going down on Fox Mulder. Someday. 

….

He’s hard. Very. Perhaps it has something do with the fact that you’re wearing a low-cut shirt and a black lace bra and you just leaned over his desk for an inordinately long period of time. Sort of on purpose. You’re feeling reckless today. You don’t know why. No, you know why. Because it’s been seven years and you’re Catholic, and well, you’re getting kind of cranky. 

He drops a pencil, and it’s the perfect excuse _dear lord what are you even considering here Dana Scully?_ But before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re down on the floor to retrieve it. See, aren’t you a good partner? Yes, yes you are. You’re on your knees looking up at him, handing him the stupid pencil, but then _oh yes_ you’re staying there. 

His cock is right there and he’s looking down at you with a quizzical look on his face, and oh, he really is hot, isn’t he? He’s hot and he’s hard and you’re Catholic and you’re horny, and fuck, you’re just going to do it.

He’s in your hand before either of you know what’s happened. He yelps, then downright whimpers, and maybe you’re making some noises, too, satisfied ones, because ohhhhh it’s all that you expected and more. You saw him that day in the decontamination shower, so you knew. You knew he’d fill your mouth to the brim and then some. 

“Holy shit, Scully,” he gasps. Doesn’t he remember you’re Catholic? Didn’t he already know? Haven’t you both wanted this forever and ever and ever and ever? You’re blown away by his heat though, blown away by the way that he holds your head, so tender, but so, so sure. You’d never have though it would happen this way, in the office, because of a pencil on the floor, but now that he’s in your mouth, you can’t imagine anything else. 

He’s moaning and it’s glorious, him thrusting his hips even though you know he’s trying his hardest not to. _It’s okay,_ you want to tell him, _it’s okay because I like it, I like you losing control, I like you getting sloppy and desperate and frantic._ You want to tell him that but you can’t. You can’t because your mouth is full. With him, with his cock, with his slick purple flesh, with his eager, needy thrusts, with everything you never gave to Eric Jackson, but god, he wished you would’ve.

“Christ, Scully, JESUS CHRIST,” he says, and that’s kind of the point. You hate to admit it, but how does he think you got so good at this? Choir practice wasn’t just for singing, you know. You smile like the naughty girl you are, then pump him even harder. 

You’re going to hell for this, surely you are, but haven’t you been patient enough? The two of you have had the patience of Job, and that’s got to count for something. He’s squirming now, his fingers gripping your hair, “oh shit oh christ oh fuck” spilling from his lips and tumbling down his chest like a lovely curse-filled waterfall. He’s going to come and he’s going to come hard, and you know how you know that? Because _Catholics are great at giving head._ No though, that’s not the only reason. He’s going to come hard because you love him so much it hurts, you love him as much as you love little baby Jesus (your mother would faint straight away while crossing herself if she heard you say that, but it’s true), and when you love someone that much, your lips and your mouth and your tongue can’t help but show it.

“Scullyscullyscully gonna gonna...”

He bursts into your mouth with a tortured groan, and it almost makes you want to cry, it’s so beautiful— just the thought that seven years worth of a dam has finally been broken, right into your mouth, right in this basement office, right here with Fox William Mulder and not with Eric you-don’t-know-his-middle-name Jackson.

You lick him clean while he gasps his way back to life. His fingers tunnel messily through your hair. It feels divine. Finally, in a stunned, hoarse voice, he breathes, “Shit, Scully. I don’t even know what to say.”

Your knees hurt from the floor so you rise to your feet, then bend over until your lips just barely graze his ear. “You can say thank you to Sister Bernadette for being too senile to notice me skipping choir practice back in the 12th grade…” 

He has no idea what you mean of course, but all the same, he looks up at you in awe and whispers, “Well, Alle-fucking-luia.”


End file.
